


Winterborn

by Enterprisingly



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Religion, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterprisingly/pseuds/Enterprisingly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to be the Herald of Andraste when you are a non-believer; especially when you are lost and alone in a blizzard. Set after "In Your Heart Shall Burn".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winterborn

**Author's Note:**

> Human mage Inquisitor. This is my first foray into Dragon Age fic and there's so much lore, hopefully I didn't get anything scrambled.

It is cold; the kind of cold that slices like knives through leather and fabric, and stabs its way into vulnerable flesh. It is the cold that almost kills her, but it is also the cold that saves her. It burns in her lungs and rouses her from her dreams.

She wakes in freezing stillness and for a moment that is all she knows.  She has just long enough to wonder if she has always been cold and alone, if she will _always_ be cold and alone, and then the first wave of agony hits her and she remembers.

The dragon. Corypheus. Haven. _Her people, burning alive_. The fight. The fall. The mark on her hand… the anchor? Dizzying panic rushes up to drown her. The mark flares, as if on cue, and the pain of it makes her nauseous, but like the cold, the agony serves its purpose. Ariadne Trevelyan, truly awake now, gets slowly back to her feet.

_

The tunnels seem to go on forever. She is too tired to walk, much less fight, so when the demons come for her, she can do little more than wave her hand at them, as if to shoo them away. It’s but a token sign of resistance; she does not want to die but she has no strength left for combat.

The anchor is not tired, however, and it opens a rift in the air that obliterates her attackers completely. Her hand throbs, her mind whirls, she walks on, holding her hand away from her body as if it might turn on her at attack at any second. Fear of the mark has given her new energy, for a while at least.

- 

She left the cave behind and stepped out into the howling darkness of the blizzard a while ago, but she cannot say exactly how long she has been trudging through the snow. It could be hours, it could be days. Time has lost all meaning in the face of the endless sea of swirling darkness that stretches around her in all directions.

She keeps walking because she knows that to stop is to die in a storm like this. To fall to her knees would be to fall to her death and Ariadne knows she cannot die here. There is too much at stake for her to join the countless lost souls on who have gone before her, alone and cold, buried without ceremony in the gave of winter. 

-

As she stands before the remnants of a campsite long since gone cold, Ariadne feels more than hears a tiny hiccup of sound escape from her lips. It is part laugh, part sob. No embers have burned in this fire pit for quite some time. No hope is burning in her heart. She is wandering aimlessly, with no direction. Despite her new power, despite her miraculous escape, despite _everything_ , she _is_ going to die. Fear like an avalanche wants to burry her, but she pushes it away.

She may die tonight but it will not be here, by this abandoned campsite. If she must chose a place to make her final stand, she is going to clim until she has reached the highest peak to which her weary legs can carry her. She will die at the top of the world, where her bones can turn to dust and blow away in the wind to join the stars. So she must go on.

Left foot up, left foot down. Right foot up, right foot down. Left, right, left, right, wrong, right, dark, light, holy, profane. A rhyme, almost a poem but not quite a prayer, echoes through her head. On and on and on she trudges, in the darkness of the endless night.

 _Is this my exalted march_ , she wonders, _Did Andraste know this fear, this weight of finality when she marched for what she believed? Does it mater? Was it worth it in the end, to be a shining beacon of pure faith? What is it to be exalted and good and holy and bright in the face of endless darkness and fear?_

They call her the Herald of Andraste. but how can she be? How could anyone who is so lost in body and spirit, possibly be the chosen avatar of a being she is not even sure she believes in?

-

Ariadne had been so devout as a little girl. So fervent in her belief, until the magic came and the Templars followed and she found herself dragged off to the circle. It was there that she learned for the first time what it meant to be considered less than a full person in the eyes of the world and, perhaps worse for someone so faithful, in the eyes of her god. It was then, and in the years that followed, that the doubt crept in until it washed away faith and left only bitterness and resentment over a lie she’d been told since before she was old enough to understand.

Wolves howl all around her and their songs, high and mournful in the night, mingle with the wind and soar high above the trees. So many songs associated with the Maker and yet this is the most holy melody she’s ever heard. It is a song of sorrow and loss and yet a celebration of loyalty and family. The Chant of Light is beautiful but it has always felt hollow since she left her family behind.

 _Is that what it is to be holy then_ , she thinks, _to be alive and conscious of your place in the world? To be at peace with the role you must play and to accept the burdens that are placed upon you when the lives of others are at stake? Am I holy? Can I be?_

She had no faith to speak of when she arrived at the Conclave and yet… someone- or something- had reached out to her from the rift, touched her hand, and saved her from the blast. And in turn, she had been alive to change the course of the world. 

What if the lie of the Chantry is true? Or perhaps just true enough to matter?

Her hand flares and burns, her mind grapples with itself, and Ariadne trudges on.

- 

There are warm embers in the campsite behind her and as she stumbles through the snow, towards the glowing light of many fires before her, Ariadne knows that she has been saved from certain death.

“There! It’s her!” Cullen.

The clanking of plate armor. Soldiers from Haven.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra.

Ariadne lets herself fall to her knees, just as they reach her. They are all speaking at once, and it is too loud, too much, too frightening and yet so welcome to hear their voices.

She starts to cry. 

Cullen lifts her from the snow as if she weighs nothing and cradles her against his chest, holding her like she hasn’t been held since she was very young. Ariadne presses her face into the fur of his pauldrons. He smells like sweat and ash and the soap that the locals from Haven made and sold to the Inquisition. He radiates peace and safety and comfort. His arms tighten around her just a bit.

“It’s going to be alright, my lady.” He says softly, turning as he speaks, to begin the walk towards fire and warmth and light.

The Anchor flares once again, gently though, just a reminder of it’s presence, but there is no real pain this time. Maybe she is the Herald of Andraste and maybe she is not, but it does not matter. She has been led across the mountain and back to where she belongs. For in the end, she has been chosen for a reason and until she completes her purpose, she does not walk alone.

**Author's Note:**

> My Inquisitor started out as an atheist, but after all of the stuff that happened post "In Your Heart Shall Burn" she actually started to believe. The whole "trek through the blizzard to safety as if guided by an invisible hand" felt very much like a test of faith to me and I wanted to write about it from that point of view.


End file.
